


Listening

by jenna221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft is not an Ice Man, Pre-A Study in Pink, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, They are ordinary underneath 'all that'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna221b/pseuds/jenna221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft hears china shattering against the door. Ah. That’ll be Uncle Rudy’s vase, then.</p><p>“I <em>hate</em> you,” Sherlock screams. Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s shoulder pounding into the door, hears Sherlock’s desperate grunts of exertion and pain. He keeps the door closed, his back pressing against the wood as if his life depends on it.</p><p>Sherlock strains to force the door open one, two, three more times. And then, he stops. Mycroft listens to the dulled <em>thunk</em> of Sherlock practically throwing himself to the floor. “I hate you. I. <em>Hate.</em> You!” he repeats, voice cracked and raw.</p><p>“Alright,” Mycroft says. He sinks down and sits, back still to the door. He puts his head in his hands. “Alright. Alright.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listening

Mycroft would like to say that he discovered everything on his own. Instead, a phone call comes in the early hours of the morning. He is still awake, sifting through endless paperwork. When the house phone rings, he knows it can only be one of three people. Considering the time, it is unlikely to be his parents.

Mycroft picks up the phone. “What, Sherlock?” he says, stifling a yawn.

“Am I speaking to Mycroft Holmes?”

The voice is one of professional detachment. It’s almost like listening to his own ‘work’ voice.

“You are,” Mycroft replies, abruptly wide awake.

“Right, sir, we have a William Sherlock Scott Holmes being taken into The Gordon Hospital, you were listed as his emergency contact. Now, we suspect...”

The voice fades into insignificance as Mycroft’s blood pounds in his ears, his stomach turned cold.

~

It is a relief when Sherlock is finally lucid. Yes, he looks too pale, too small, too thin, too _everything_ , but his eyes are blazing, and Mycroft readies himself for the sparring match, a familiar pattern that he can follow.

But, it does not come. Sherlock doesn’t say a word. The silence stretches until it is unbearable, and Mycroft actually considers abandoning Sherlock with his thoughts as he escapes to an empty corridor of the hospital.

Instead, he says, “I thought you were dead.” He tries to keep his tone conversational, but his voice still shakes, just catching on the ‘duh’ and the ‘eh.’ It’s only a little stumble, but Sherlock is bound to have noticed.

Sherlock is looking at him with a mixture of confusion and disdain. “But... that’s...” he replies, too slow, too _slow_ , so Mycroft cuts in with a brittle, “Illogical? Perhaps. But, here we are.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, sighs, and then opens them again.”And, where are... _‘we’_ going?” he says. The words are precise and measured.

Mycroft stands with a sudden surge of anger, bearing a tight, dangerous smile. “I’m glad you asked.”

And, of course, Sherlock lifts his chin up in defiance, his gaze a challenge, and some distant part of Mycroft’s mind is screaming _don’t rise, don’t rise_ , but it’s too late to go back, now: “You’re staying with me. Full time. No little...” His mouth curls into a sneer before he can stop himself. “... _Excursions._ ”

Sherlock scowls. “You can’t keep me cooped up like a dog.”

“Well, perhaps if you acted a little more human, I wouldn’t need to.”

The jibe is a quick, poisonous dart, irretrievable. Sherlock’s eyes darken and narrow. Mycroft could kick himself. But, all he does is turn and head towards the door.

“You can’t do this,” Sherlock calls out, just as Mycroft opens the door. Mycroft turns back around. He fights for composure.

“I can, Sherlock. And, I will.”

He leaves, slamming the door behind him, too slow to block out Sherlock’s bitter, “I’d like to see you try.”

~

It isn’t like Hell, Mycroft thinks. That’s a trite expression, overused by dull people with equally dull lives. No. It’s like purgatory, like living with a ghost. He’d expected loud resistance from Sherlock, but instead he simply shuffles around the house in silence, eating rarely, glaring at Mycroft with dark circled eyes.

And, Mycroft does not know what to do. It terrifies him. He has whole monologues of what he wants to say, but Sherlock is worryingly unpredictable, so he says nothing at all. In fact, aside from pouring two cups of tea, and setting the table for two, he acts like Sherlock is not there.

Until, one afternoon, he goes into the living room, and sees Sherlock standing in front of the mantelpiece, fingers outstretched. He is tracing the ghastly floral pattern of a vase, a gift from Uncle Rudy.

Mycroft clears his throat. “What on earth are you doing?”

Sherlock does not reply. Mycroft comes closer, and stands directly beside him. Sherlock continues to trace the pattern, his fingers trembling. “ _Fascinating_ ,” he breathes in an awful slur.

“You’ve taken-” The rest dies somewhere at the back of Mycroft’s throat. He swallows, takes a short, sharp breath, then says, “Didn’t you?”

Sherlock’s eyes meet Mycroft’s for a horrible fraction of a second before he turns his head away. Mycroft takes hold of his chin with a fierce grip, forcing Sherlock to look at him.

“ _Didn’t_ you?” Mycroft presses, and his voice is definitely shaking, now.

Sherlock breaks free from Mycroft’s grasp. “Don’t be _obvious_ , Mycroft,” he spits. “It’s so very _boring_.”

Mycroft only just resists the urge to hit him. “Can you hear yourself?” he retorts, knowing he is shouting, but unable to stop. “Your life is not a _game_ , Sherlock! You can’t start over after one wrong-”

And, Sherlock lunges forward, shoving Mycroft against the mantlepiece. Mycroft gasps, and tries to push Sherlock away, but in one brutal movement, Sherlock has grabbed his wrist, and twisted it behind his back.

“Don’t appal me when I’m _high_ ,” Sherlock hisses. It is far from his usual voice. Mycroft knows that this is not his brother. And, as Sherlock gives his wrist another vicious little twist, Mycroft’s breathing turns shallow in fear.

He elbows Sherlock in the chest with his free arm. He doesn’t stop to watch Sherlock’s reaction; he’s only focussed on getting out of the room _now._ He closes the door, and leans his back against it, flexing his wrist gingerly. _Not big, Mike. Not clever_ , he can imagine his mother sighing.

Mycroft hears china shattering against the door. Ah. That’ll be Uncle Rudy’s vase, then.

“I _hate_ you,” Sherlock screams. Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s shoulder pounding into the door, hears Sherlock’s desperate grunts of exertion and pain. He keeps the door closed, his back pressing against the wood as if his life depends on it.

Sherlock strains to force the door open one, two, three more times. And then, he stops. Mycroft listens to the dulled _thunk_ of Sherlock practically throwing himself to the floor. “I hate you. I. _Hate_. You!” he repeats, voice cracked and raw.

“Alright,” Mycroft says. He sinks down and sits, back still to the door. He puts his head in his hands. “Alright. Alright.”

~

“Hello? Mycroft? Are you there?”

Mycroft takes a moment to just breathe. If his mother had answered the phone, it would have been easier. They are the masters of misdirection, saying one thing and meaning another, and Mycroft thinks he can only handle that right now. Upfront honesty is too much.

But, that is his father’s area, what his father handles. So, Mycroft takes one last gulp of air, and says, riddled with pauses, “I-it’s Sherlock. ...I’m sorry.”

~

Much, much later, Mycroft hears Sherlock open the living room door. He is in the hallway, hoovering. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. It is, for once, blissfully normal. He turns the hoover off.

Sherlock stares at Mycroft, and bites his lip. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it; it’s a childhood habit, and Mycroft knows Sherlock would be privately mortified if he ever brought it up. So, he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry.”

It is the quietest he has ever heard Sherlock speak.

“It’s fine.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he says, a little louder. He glances down, and Mycroft follows his eyes. Sherlock is looking at Mycroft’s wrist which is spattered with angry, red fingerprints.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Sherlock whispers.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. Sherlock has never been one to swear. He moves his wrist behind his back. “Sherlock-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock interrupts, but without any heat behind it. He runs his hands through his hair twice, then seems to become aware of his actions, and clasps his hands behind his back. He looks somewhere near Mycroft’s left ear as he speaks.

“It’s not fine. I... I _hurt_ you. This isn’t- this isn’t _me_ , Mycroft.”

Sherlock’s eyes are wide in uncertainty. A part of Mycroft does not want to respond for fear of ruining this sudden moment of frankness. But, the other part knows that Sherlock is seeking reassurance.

“Alright,” he says. “I think we need to-”

Sherlock’s entire posture stiffens. “I want a bath,” he cuts in, and turns to thunder up the stairs. Mycroft sighs. They are so alike, playing hide and seek with feelings.

~

“Just keep things simple, Mycroft.”

Mycroft barks out a laugh with no humour in it. “Simple? That isn’t really how we... Sherlock would throw it back in my face.”

His father’s tone is consistently patient. “Maybe. But, you have to take that risk. He needs you.”

~

The bath is already running by the time Mycroft has caught up with Sherlock. It’s just the hot tap being used. Sherlock stands with his arms folded, watching the steam unfurl from the steadily rising water.

Mycroft waits. When it becomes clear that Sherlock is no longer in a talkative mood, he says, “You’ll burn yourself with that,” and bends over the bath to turn on the cold water tap, too. When he straightens up again, Sherlock is sitting on the closed toilet lid. His hands are covering his face.

Mycroft watches him for a moment. He makes his decision, and prays it is the right one. As he kneels in front of Sherlock, he places a hand on his shoulder, and hopes it is enough.

Sherlock takes his hands off his face. His eyes are closed. “It’s not- not like what you’re thinking it is.” He sniffs. “No dodgy deals in back alleys. Too cliché.”

Mycroft’s lips twitch. Only Sherlock could sound imperious while sitting on a toilet seat.  

“Well... what is ‘it’?” he prompts, oh so carefully.

Sherlock opens his eyes. “My- a graduate. Sebastian Wilkes.”

Mycroft instantly labels the name as the worst one in history. Sherlock breathes out with an unsteady rhythm, and gives a little half hiccup of a laugh. “Swear you won’t tell anyone about- about all this.”

Mycroft stands up. He squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder gently, before going to turn off the bath’s taps. “Not a soul,” he promises.

~

Mycroft can feel himself relaxing, just a little. Thank God. “Thank you,” he tells his father.

“Not at all. You’re clever boys. You’ll figure it out.”

Mycroft is about to hang up, when his father says, “Oh, and Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“I- I trust you, you know that. I won’t tell your mother anything yet. But, all the same... ring us, a little more often. She worries.”

“I will.”

~

Sherlock is wearing a pair of Mycroft's pyjamas. He looks ridiculous. Sherlock tries to pull up the bottoms of the trousers so they look a little less like they're drowning him. 

"Don't you say a word," he says.

Mycroft smiles. It falters a little when Sherlock strides into his bedroom. 

"That's my room," he says, and then feels stupid.

Sherlock smirks. "I know."

Sherlock seems a little surprised when Mycroft follows him inside. It's a double bed, so the space isn't an issue. But, it still feels slightly surreal to Mycroft, as they lie beside each other. _Is this what ordinary feels like?_ he wants to ask. He doesn't. 

They are silent. Mycroft mentally draws up to-do lists for his work, thinking that Sherlock has fallen asleep. But, then, there is a small voice: "I-um..."

Mycroft looks across at Sherlock. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling. This time, he doesn't say anything. Instinctively, he feels that Sherlock will just retreat into himself if he does. Eventually, Sherlock continues: "I owe Sebastian money."

Mycroft looks up at the ceiling, too. "It's fine."

Sherlock makes a strange, strangled noise. "I-it's quite a lot of money, Mycroft." He sounds tearful. 

Mycroft stretches, and lies on his side so he is facing Sherlock. "It's only money," he says. 

Sherlock shifts so he is also lying on his side. He smiles. It's small, and wobbles ever so slightly, but it's a smile all the same. "Sebastian's in for a shock," he says.

"Oh?"

The smile turns into a grin. "I gave him your address instead of mine."

Mycroft laughs. And, they talk. It is probably the longest conversation they have had. Sherlock tells him about university, and Mycroft notes that the only fellow student he mentions by name is Sebastian.

"But, what about...?" Mycroft's unasked question lingers in the air.

Sherlock shrugs. "People aren't very fond of the truth. So, that's that. I could find out all their little stories, who they'd shagged, who they actually fell in-but, anyone could do that."

Mycroft spots a thread of hope in that, so he chases it. "And... what sort of stories do _you_ want to tell?"

Sherlock makes a face at his unusually lyrical phrasing. But, then he hums in thought. "Stories no-one else can tell," he replies. "Stories people want to hide. I could see that at uni, all of them with their mundane little gossips, but when something was  _really_ happening...they wouldn't see it. Or they didn't want to see it." Sherlock sighs. "Someone needs to tell them, though. You-well, to continue this stereotypical analogy- you can't just leave things unfinished. It's not fair."

Mycroft does not tell Sherlock that he has just heard one of the most heroic things he ever will hear. Sherlock would not believe him, anyway. He is both the smartest and most oblivious person Mycroft knows.

Eventually, Sherlock's words trail off, his blinking and breathing slows, and slows. Mycroft looks at his brother's face, slack and unguarded in sleep, and he thinks  _you have been so alone, and I did not know_. He is meant to know everything.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry I wasn't there, I'm sorry I didn't understand." He makes sure his tears do not wake Sherlock.

~

Mycroft takes great pleasure in opening the door to Sebastian's pathetic little face, and seeing the naked shock there.

"You're not-" he stutters, and Mycroft gives him a shark-like smile.

"Astonishing observation." His eyes roam over Sebastian. Pasty, pale, hair rigidly parted to one side. Eton all over.

He writes the cheque and hands it over, cold and abrupt.

Sebastian chuckles in a very nasty way. "It's not that simple, Holmes. He'll be back-"

Mycroft grabs Sebastian by the lapel, and pulls him close. "Listen very closely. If you so much as breathe in my brother's vicinity, I will make sure it is the last thing you ever do. This is not an over exaggeration."

Sebastian tries to stammer out some excuse, and Mycroft tightens his hold. "You are a dull little man who will amount to nothing. You are _nothing_ like my brother."

He lets go of Sebastian, and slams the door shut. Enough, now.

After a few seconds, he hears a low whistle from the hallway. Sherlock emerges. "What a drama queen," he quips, but he still sounds grateful. "A 'minor position' in the government, my arse."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "The occasion called for it. He's a slimy bastard."

Sherlock sniggers. Then: "I... I was reading the paper this morning. A murder enquiry, but the D.I sounds hopeless."

Mycroft smiles. "Well, on you go, then."

Sherlock blinks. "You're-  _really_?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

And, as Sherlock grins his thanks before leaving in a flurry, Mycroft thinks:  _yes, there are stories that need telling. And, I'm helping yours to be told._

 


End file.
